


The London Menagerie

by You_are_not_my_division



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Au!lock, Dragon!John, Dragon!Lock, Dragons, M/M, Magic, Magical Creatures, Magical Realism, Mythology - Freeform, Telepathy, Vampires, Werewolves, except John is the dragon, oh my
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_are_not_my_division/pseuds/You_are_not_my_division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London had the world's largest and most impressive Menagerie in the world.</p><p>When the barrier between the Magical Creatures and humanity dissipated, chaos erupted. War sprung and global massacres ensued, eventually dissipating into peace as the Magical Creatures--called Magics--slowly integrated into society, harshly inferior to and often enslaved by humans. Sherlock Holmes, a lead researcher at the The London Menagerie, devoted his time to studying and capturing these creatures, too busied by sludge samples and pixie corpses to investigate the awkward antics and motivations of his new (seemingly) human flatmate, John. </p><p>John’s Path inexplicably pulls him to London, sucking him into Sherlock Holmes’s vortex of enthralling chaos. Though enraptured by his antics, John is not blind to the tense standoff between the humans and the Magics, fueled by mutual misunderstanding and mistrust. Caught in the crossfires of justice and passion, John is pushed to his limits, desperately fighting hold peace while suppressing the malicious monsters lurking in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Prologue_

London had the world's largest and most impressive Menagerie in the world.

Forty years ago, technology advanced to break the dimensional barrier between the humans and the Magical on Earth. Chaos raged. It seemed like a switch had flipped-- one second, the world was peaceful; the next, there were pixies fluttering in the air, forest nymphs in the trees of New York's Central Park, Dragons resting on the spires of Russian Cathedrals. Centaurs frolicked in Ireland's rolling pastures while nasty little sphinxes, the size of house cats, brawled and spat at each other in Egypt. The mutual bewildered surprise yielded shocking, diverse reactions, ranging between godly reverence and immediate attack.

One hour later, The UN organized a full assault, deploying units with the heaviest firepower and training to defend major cities by whatever means necessary.

Five hours after, the President of the United States gave an official address explaining the circumstances: specialized researchers from an undercover department of the US Government had detected strange wavelengths of activity that increasingly sensitive technology had identified around fifteen years before. They had been testing the wavelength ever since, desperately searching for its origin and pushing it to its limits. A recent experiment manipulated the wavelength too drastically, and it dissipated. When the signal disappeared, the monsters materialized.

Two weeks later, every Magical in main metropolitan areas--New York City, Tokyo, London, Delhi, Shanghai, Moscow, Paris, among others-- had been either killed, detained, or deemed harmless. 

Three months later, the remaining Dragons that had not been massacred fled into the deepest recesses of the Chinese Mountains. 

A year after, humans started putting collars on some of the weaker, non-humanoid species, foolishly pretending to own them.

Two years after, the London Menagerie opened.

It replaced the London Zoo (who would pay to see a tiger pace behind bars when there were muzzled chimeras connected to humans by electrified golden leashes on the streets?) and drew millions of foreign dignitaries on the first day. It featured pixies, mermaids, pegasuses, trolls, centaurs, sphinxes, basilisks, hippogriffs-- not to mention many of the lesser known creatures that hadn't permeated human legend. Skaxi, tiny but ferocious beasts living on the lips of volcanoes and swimming in the pools of lava, flared fins from their necks with mesmerizing patterns to hypnotize and consume prey. Nekmunnit skittered around carcasses, greedy claws shredding and shoveling scraps of meat into the mouths on their stomachs. Aloidia sat still in the pitch darkness, watching for insects to flutter too close to its body and get caught on the sickly sweet skin, only to be digested through pores. 

There were, of course, the monsters too large or unruly to be kept in the public eye. Trapped in the deep recesses of the Menagerie or in secret research centers hundreds of miles away, they were constantly tested on and observed. These creatures were handled with the utmost care. The massive Vasagle spewed lava against fire retardant glass, observed and documented as its thick horns gashed into elephants effortlessly, hurling them against walls like child’s play. Glebu vomited toxic chemical sludge as the waste of past meals, bathing in its own waste, becoming fatal at the first whiff. These were the creatures Mycroft Holmes, the director of the London Menagerie, truly cared about. 

Ten years later, Glebu sludge was utilized by the UK to invade neighboring countries. England dominated Western Europe. Their army had been countered by the Russians, who had enslaved a hoard of Loidzue, carnivorous beasts the size of Clydesdale horses whose lightning quickness, ferocious teeth, and feral instincts made them virtually unstoppable. Egypt controlled Africa by introducing millions of Vestinure, minuscule wyrms who dashed through the air and bore through bone and into men's skulls, consuming the medulla and slaying soldiers by the thousands. The three met in the Balkan mountains, ferociously raging against one another, monster versus monster and man versus man.

The war stood at a murderous standstill for around a year, until Mycroft Holmes' team developed methods of telepathic and electric control over the Vasagle held in the Menagerie. _Nothing_ could kill the Vasagle. England took over Asia, Europe, and Africa effortlessly. North and South America held foreign relations at a fearful equilibrium-- England couldn't (yet) transport the monstrous Vasagle over the sea to invade, but the fear of such creatures kept the estranged countries from challenging England. Trade relations were hesitantly entered, and, thirty years after the Magicals had appeared, tentative political peace was globally reached. 

The Menagerie bloomed in popularity. Forty years after what had been deemed "The Day of Magic," there still seemed to be a new species discovered every week. The humans corralled and dominated the Magics; the more humanistic, sentient Magics became slaves, their statuses decreasing as their novelty wore off. 

The humanoid Magics-- deemed Others-- were slowly introduced into society. Every Other forced to wear a distinguishing band around their neck to differentiate a dangerous Other from a human. The Others were additionally prescribed specific containment measures to restrict their abilities as they hesitantly entered into human society. Many of the weaker, poorer Others were enslaved by wealthy humans, condemned to labor or housework. More respectable and affluent Others were able to maintain an independent, non-enslaved lifestyle, though the blatant discrimination only increased with their rank.

The humans forgot the Dragons, hidden in the mountains. 

The Dragons did not forget them. 

The Dragons, one of the members of the elite and respected Magical Higher Aristocracy before the Day of Magic, fed off of the universe's pure and unfiltered cosmic energy, living since the beginning of time by consuming the energy of stars until they imploded. 25 Dragons lived on this planet, each connected to a specific element of transpecies existence. With the life force of stars to fuel them, Dragons prowled as one of the strongest species. Though, at times, certain Dragons rose to create a tyrannical rule over all other creatures, no Dragon could deny following its Path; legend said that, when every Dragon across the universe reaches its Purpose, the universe will die, finally complete. Thus, Dragons kept doggedly on their Paths, working tirelessly towards their Paths' destinations.

Forced into exile, the Dragons spread among hundreds of rural Himalayan villages, but we are only concerned with one: Tsengai. 

In Tsengai, the seven Dragons who appeared were not seen by the humans not as a threat, but as a godly gift. The Dragons brought with them luck and fortune, as legend had predicted. Flowers bloomed in their presence despite the harsh winter, and the fires seemed to burn warmer and stronger. Only one of these Dragons took on the spiraling snake-like shape of the village's traditional lore; some were small, scarcely taller than a cow, and walked on four legs, while the Dragon’s leader seemed to tower at least three men tall, her wings as wide as the village when fully extended. All of the Dragons were treated as visiting gods, fed with fat pigs and provided merry entertainment, warm shelter, and abundant gratitude. The Dragons returned their kindness by providing bountiful harvest, enriching pregnancy in both the women and the livestock, and even assisting in community tasks, such as fetching water or teaching children. 

As years passed, the shifts began. Ten years after the Dragons fled to Tsengai, their first human traits began appearing. The Dragons could grow smaller and larger at will, could walk on two legs if they wished. Progress continued until thirty years had passed and the first dragon used the power of millions of stars in order to voluntarily shift fully into man. 

And now, forty years after Tsengai had received the Blessing of the Dragons, all of the Dragons walked as humans, reserving the ability to shift into Dragon forms for select occasions. The four elder Dragons voluntarily took on the image of their fellow Chinese villagers; the three younger Dragons, however, took advantage of their immature black scales to fly the world at night and spy on foreign civilizations, often choosing to shift into humans with European or American features. 

A peaceful equality settled between the Dragons and the villagers in Tsengai, better than could be said for some of the other villages; the humans recognized their inferiority, but the Dragons treated them as equal kin. A strong mutual respect and thankfulness spread, bringing constant prosperity to the village.

The Dragons were bound by nothing, but they stayed in Tsengai. They were content to rest until their Path was exposed to them through a red string, as it did every millennia or so, pulling on the core of their beings through a curve in their Path.

Most of the Dragons were satisfied with life in the village, never wishing to explore other pockets of human civilization until absolutely necessary.

John was not.


	2. Chapter 2

_The problem with foreshadowing,_ John thought, _was that you can’t tell what it’s foreshadowing until it’s too late._

John’s ghostly black wings beat to the pace of the rolling waves below, carrying him hundreds of miles above the North Sea. He had taken a liking to midnight flights; they were far superior to flying during the day, when the sun beat heavily upon his scales with ferocious heat. He didn’t need to take precautions to avoid being seen. Above all, night flights allowed him to watch the stars. The night provided peaceful recluse, times for John to reflect and meditate on the pattern of distant galaxies. This night, especially, left him with much to contemplate.

His red string had materialized five days prior.

It was a ghostly string that seemed to sprout from the center of his chest, flowing deep into the forest. His impulse to follow it was barely suppressed as he sought out the other Dragons. He knew what the string was--a physical manifestation of a Dragon’s Path, a twist in their journey to carry them towards new challenges--but the new intrusion spurred his heart, sending it thumping hard against his ribs.

“John--”

“Yes, Harriet, I quite know, thanks,” John had snapped as he brushed past Harriet the day that the string appeared, quickly sending out a telepathic call for all of the Dragons to meet in the Main Hall. “I’m just waiting until meeting with the others before follow the string.”

“The rest of the Clan would like to speak to you. We all can see the string, you know, it’s not just you. Even some of the humans. It must be a large progression along your Path,” Harriet urged, walking besides John as they entered the bustling village. “You should leave at once, lest it disappear again.” 

The memory bitterly resurfaced in John’s mind. The last time his string had appeared--1095--he had been the northern boreal forests, engrossed in months of intense meditation. He had almost completed a complex ritual to connect his soul to a distant yet expansive galaxy (the ritual was a pseudo form of ownership, a sort of claim over the system to take its energy when and if he pleased) when the string had appeared. He steadfastly refused to pursue it, determined to complete his ritual. After three days, it gradually faded. As a result, the Crusades raged. Unnecessary imbalance led to political unrest and thousands of deaths, all due to John’s absence.

John shivered the memory away with a scowl, returning to his reflections.

“I’m going to follow it,” he had sworn before leaving. “I’m not letting such horrors happen again.”

Arrangements were quickly made with the rest of John’s current Clan. They had been together for the last thousand years-- a relatively short tryst in the eyes of Dragons, but enough to forge a connection. John was particularly close to Harriet. Being the patron Dragon of Illusions, her personality was quite different from John’s, but her earthliness, logic, and loyalty secured her as a closer acquaintance than the rest. He promised himself that he would return to Harriet, whether she was still with the others or had moved onto a new Clan, once his task was completed. With a final farewell to the human patriarchs of the village, John shifted into his Dragon form, soaring into the skies and submitting to the allure of the red string.

Yes, that was definitely the problem with foreshadowing. He could see the signs, see small hints of the future, certain pulses of energy from the red string when particular thoughts went through his mind, but he could never identify what the foreshadowing meant. The path was detailed in the stars--if only he could connect the dots. He never was much good at puzzles.

Now that he was flying above the North Sea, however, the string was tied around his neck like a collar, tugging him forward. The string had begun pulling at him more firmly, with more authority. He must be close. 

The golden sun bloomed just above the horizon, just beginning to heat John’s scales as his lithe, ghostly white body curled through the air. Tired wings pulsed, golden accents twisting around his slender horns and neck. The two spectral whiskers from his muzzle ghosted behind him, whipped by wind as he pushed forward. John himself had no-doubt been one of the chief inspirations of Chinese Dragon lore; apart from his thin wings and horns, plus the absence of a fur mane, he was indiscernible from many of the ancient Chinese sketches. Half of his scales were a tired looking black color, faded into an ashy gray, while the others were a vibrant gold. The sharp contrast only showed how far he had to mature until his Path would be complete. 

He flew higher into the air, seeking refuge in the clouds as the light grew. The beads of suspended water skimmed against his scales as he blindly continued forward, guided only by the string.

Had he not been so close to his destination, he likely would have landed and rested sooner, but bustling anticipation pressed him to continue. The string was pulsing now, thrumming with anxious energy and tugging him downward. He carefully emerged from the clouds, still concealed from sight, but able to spy on the land below. He was drawing close to a bustling metropolitan city--London, his logic supplied, based on its location respectively to the North Sea--and searched for the correct landing spot.

There was a thick net of telepathic energy surrounding London, thrumming with soft rage and misery. He pushed it from his mind as he glided down into a pasture quickly, walking among livestock in order to avoid being seen. Reveling in the universe's ever present energy, John fluidly transformed back into a humanoid form, rustic blonde hair reflecting his golden scales. He shook himself out a bit, flexing his sore shoulders and neck.

“It’s an--an honor.”

The sudden sound came from a small, demure seeming woman, whose mousy brown hair fluttered from her tight ponytail as she bowed at him. She seemed like the type to be scared by her own shadow. As soon as he laid eyes on her, his string suddenly vanished, leaving only a trace of red smoke.

He watched it disappear for a moment, and redirected his attention to the girl. He’d found the correct step in his Path; the rest was up to him.

“The honor is mutual,” John replied, returning the respectful bow.

“I was summoned by the stars,” the woman responded nervously, her eyes momentarily flickering towards the sky, before returning to John. “I’m a kitsune-- a truthseer. I’ve-- I’m--I’m sorry, I’ve never seen a--a Dragon, in person. I’d thought-- my mum, she’d told me--well, obviously, it’s false, but I’d thought-- she told me-- Dragons were myths, she said, but-- I mean-- I’m Molly.”

“I’m John, the patron Dragon of balance.”

“God knows we can use some balance in--in London,” Molly awkwardly joked, itching the back of her neck. Nine tails were exposed by a hole in her custom-tailored outfit, swaying peacefully with the wind. “I’ve--I’ve been waiting here for hours… John. I can--I can drive you to London, if that’s where you're off to.”

“I believe it is,” John nodded. “Thanks.”

The ride back began in tense anxiety, but John’s quiet comments and questions slowly dissolved her nerves. He needed to keep her talking--not only to further grasp the situation, but to pick up on the new dialects and turns of phrase that he would need to blend in properly.

“London is not a good place for us Magics, John,” Molly muttered as they entered the fringes of the city.

“Why not?”

“We’ve been enslaved,” she responded evenly, trembling voice betraying her projected composure. “Oh, John, it’s awful here! The most of us are owned by nasty, wealthy humans, forced to do their bidding. I myself am owned by the British Crown, so I’m in no position to complain. It's as close to freedom as many of us can get. But so many others are in desperate need of help. We all need help, John. We’ll all be glad you’ve come to save us.”

John nodded, a familiar and exhilarating anxiety fluttering in his chest. “I’ll do everything I can, Molly, but it’ll take time.”

“Of course. Can you--can you tell me about the Dragons? About yourself?” Molly muttered. John had always heard kitsunes to be inquisitive, curious creatures. It was a trait that often led to their deaths. Molly’s shyness may have concealed her nature formerly, but as she calmed, her questions increased in frequency.

John nodded, watching as the buildings grew in height and they made their way closer to the core of the city. “Each Dragon is a patron of a certain element of existence. Elements can be anything, not just fire, water, earth, or air. My element, for example, is balance. Peace. My purpose is to secure harmony, though war is sometimes inevitable.” John’s mind fluttered as he watched the hulking skyscrapers around him. “There’s 25 of us on this planet, keeping the Earth in equilibrium with the rest of the universe. Not awfully interesting, really. We’ve been around since the beginning of the Earth." He reached for anything else that could satiate her. "Dragons, being part of the Magical Higher Aristocracy, are one of the only species who could see the humans before the barrier broke. We were like ghosts before, never seen, but sometimes _felt_ by more perceptive humans. Shamans, psychics, those lot. I’ve been to London many times, but it’s changed drastically since my last visit.”

“In the last few years especially,” Molly added. “We’re forced to wear these awful things. Containments, they’re called. Different for each species, but they restrict our power.” Molly turned her wrist towards John, showing off the silver clasp that was securely locked around her wrist. “The silver keeps me from using any of my abilities. The message from the stars about you was the only thing that's gotten through to me. All of us Magicals got the Containments ten years ago, and they’re tortuous. Draining. I feel like I’m barely surviving, continuing each day with only just enough energy to sustain. We’ve been waiting years for a savior, John."

John coughed an awkward affirmation, watching out of the car window.

John wasn’t the most intelligent of the Dragons, he admitted. Intellect too often led to chaos, and he’d never been terribly envious of his more “gifted” peers. But even he could recognize the strong difference in demeanor between those with a white necklace, confidently expecting to be followed, and those with a black one, sulking at their Masters’ side. Every so often, a creature came around with a red band, bound by excessive collars and chains, varying in their level of humanness. John shivered when he saw those miserable creatures.

“I’m bringing you to a friend of mine,” Molly muttered as they continued into the center of town. “Mike Stamford. He’s a bit of a specialist in this sort of thing.”

John nodded. “Thanks. You've been a lot of help.”

"Of course." 

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, before a turn exposed a sprawling white building with magnificent marble columns, a long line of people spanning out the door. It was vaguely reminiscent of a Greek temple, the words “LONDON MENAGERIE” inscribed into the marble at the top. Opulent fences tipped with gold clashed intensely with the scene reflected across the street, giving off the air of a country estate rather than a city building.

“What happened to the London Zoo?” 

“Zoo?” Molly asked, glancing back at the building. “I-- I’m not sure, but that’s the London Menagerie. It’s awful. They keep the less humanistic Magicals there, the ones that aren’t able to speak like the Humans or the ones who looked too different. Keep them there like brutes, like animals. The humans simply see them as savage beasts; they can’t sense the underlying intelligence, or the connected telepathic web between us all. Not to mention the testing they do there! Horrible testing, killing Magicals every day in the name of ‘science’ or ‘progress’. The London Menagerie has secrets, John, horrible secrets. I’m not a strong telepath, but I swear that I can hear hundreds of creatures crying for help from deep below the ground sometimes.”

She was right. John, a much stronger telepath, could hear moaning cries from underground, yowling yearns for salvation. He swallowed hard and banished the pleas from his mind.

Some chaos, John had found, was not meant to be stopped. He’d do what he could to help them all, and desperately plead that it’d be enough.

\--

Sherlock _loathed_ formalities.

He stood stiffly, hands stiffly clasped behind his back, as the former Dutch queen explored the lab. These sorts of random inspections and tours weren’t uncommon, but each one brought Sherlock just _that_ much closer to quitting and forming his own laboratory.

With a scowl, Sherlock paced out of the lab, leaving a technician to handle the dignitary. He absolutely hated working in Mycroft’s lab, his work being constantly monitored and observed, but it was the only lab in London with proper access to Magical samples.

“Sherlock, you’ve got a visitor,” a nameless technician said, stepping next to Sherlock.

Sherlock momentarily glanced at the boy (barely twenty, from Ireland--Dublin, specifically. He'd recently worked (no--interned) with the Menagerie in the Magics care section, but he was too timid for it, still useful, though, intelligent and eager enough to not just be fired, so he was sent down here. Nervous, if his bitten nails said anything, with a single strand of animal hair on his cuff, clearly from shaking hands with Sherlock’s mysterious visitor. It wasn’t a Magic’s hair, no, it was dog hair--who still kept dogs these days when you could purchase a magical Jackalope or some other trophy pet? People who couldn’t afford a Magic pet, but still need companionship, so either a free Other or a human laborer. Scratch that, perhaps two dogs--a dog and a cat, rather-- according to the other strand of hair on the inter's wrist from a different animal. Two pets, then; his visitor was clearly desperate for social interaction, yet knew Sherlock well enough to realize that he’d just ignore a formal visitor’s call, so they went through a new intern instead. Either they were extraordinarily clever and picked this intern on purpose, noticing he was new, or it was a blind chance, or they knew some other way that-- ah, obvious).

“Mike Stamford,” Sherlock mused, walking past the intern. “Tell him to meet me in Lab 74A.”

The intern nervously nodded, scrambling back the way he came.

Yes, good. Mike Stamford finally had the creature he’d ordered--a _Nambli_ , native to the Americas and therefore difficult to acquire in London. It was vital to one of his research projects, and his work had been stagnantly waiting for this new specimen.

Mike was a dog of many tricks, doing what he had to in order to survive as a free Other in a segregated society. He worked through many illegal underground Magicals trading tracks, as well as offering services for helping escaped Others start a new life with a new identity in London, supposedly untraceable by former owners. Of course, these were the only businesses Sherlock was concerned with; he could run gambling rings or pet shops for all Sherlock cared, but he was useful for the two previously mentioned services, and as long as he remained useful, Sherlock provided him with lofty checks in order to keep him afloat and providing. Sherlock barged into Lab 74A, not bothering to check for hazards or other running experiments. It was technically a public domain lab, available to any of the scientists if needed, but Sherlock quickly disposed the other scientists’ experiments to claim his own laboratory space.

Mike was a Projecting Psychic, one of three main types of Psychics. Being a Projector, he has rudimentary mind reading skills, but could implant thoughts or memories into the minds of others--he could, hypothetically, at least, but the onyx firmly strapped on his arm restricted his abilities. Mike was smart (somewhat), however, and knew just what strings to push and how far to go, and was one of the few Others who’d discovered how to remove and replace their bands at will. Given his usefulness, Sherlock pretended not to notice.

The plump man pushed the Lab door open with his back, wheeling a box with the image of a desk chair construction kit into the room. “Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to see you again!”

“Likewise,” Sherlock lied, nodding tersely. “Do you have the Nambli?”

“Took me three hours of negotiation with some bastards in Philadelphia, but yes. Sedated right now, and muzzled, loosely. They said he had a temper.”

Mike pulled the box close to the kennel lining the side of the lab, opening up an empty cage. He tugged a pair of gardener's gloves from his back pocket and wriggled them over his fingers, before pulling open the box.

He pulled out a creature roughly the size of a housecat, but much more deadly. It had a sharp beak, not unlike a raven’s, and four fiercely clawed cat-like feet. Bird feathers ran the length of its body, ending in a plume of vibrant green. The Nambli’s feathers were mostly grey, though there seemed to be a bit of deep emerald, barely noticeable unless searched for. Sherlock’s concern, however, was not the Nambli’s feather colors or claws, but the three sets of eyes it boasted, able to flick and rotate to form a full 360 degree range of sight despite being set on the sides of its head. The dissection of its ocular system would expose clues into how the ocular system of the _Taghin_ , a hulking yet herbivorous beast with hundreds of eyes dotting its face like freckles, may function. 

“A fantastic specimen, if I do say so m’self,” Mike nodded, carefully setting the drugged Magic in the cool steel cage. He closed and locked the solid door, the only betrayal of its contents being through two small holes in the top of the steel for oxygen.

“Yes,” Sherlock mused. 

He gave Stamford a once over, checking for any abnormalities or clues into the activities he’d been involved in within the three months since they’d last met. A long, red hair was set on his back--he’d been seeing a woman-- amidst the ever present lint, betraying his social status despite the fitting suit he wore. A slight tremble in his hands suggested that he hadn’t eaten properly recently (Sherlock would pay him extra, then, he couldn’t have his supplier dying on him) and yellowing fingernails hinted that he’d taken up a bad habit in smoking. An array of non-human, non-animal hairs caught his attention. several different hairs, from different types of Others. Mike had been busy.

“Still dabbing in relocation services, then?”

“I won’t ask how you knew, bloody git you are, but yes. New policy changes in France, more lenient policy on the abuse of the Others. Been more Others escaping from their Masters, coming to me to relocate here. More humans, too, I’ve seen, the overly liberal type, coming here since England has the strictest and most protective Other policies now.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock muttered, eyes fixed in a microscope of another scientist’s experiment. He scoffed and grabbed the slide, wiping off the urine specimen and putting the microscope away. Why would anyone bother with such trivial, useless things as Chimera urine? Obviously they were trying to detect unique protein chains in the Chimera, but they were going about it _horribly_. Sherlock was doing them a favor, really, in ruining the sample. 

“I’m looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock muttered, setting up his own microscope and slide, “if any of your liberal Frenchmen can pay rent.”

Mike nodded, taking the statement more as an assignment than an offhanded comment. “Right, I’ll look into that.” He began to walk towards the door, pausing right before exiting. “About the Nambli--”

“The fitting payment will be wired into your bank account tonight, direct from Mycroft Holmes.”

“Right. Thanks, mate. Let me know when you need another beast.”

With that, Mike left, scratching at the onyx stone burning on his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I've had this story churning in my head for quite a while, and would absolutely LOVE to hear your opinion! If you have time, I'd greatly appreciate a short little comment with your thoughts! Update coming soon!


	3. Chapter 3

_She was the first breath of chaos that he had enjoyed._

_A foggy morning among the forests of North America, paradoxically crisp while intolerably humid, stretched on timidly. John was old, but his mind was immature and young, still intoxicated by his far-fetched imagination and improperly stubborn resolve. His combined strength and immaturity crafted him into a dangerous, easily manipulated target._

_The forest was eerily quiet, as if the trees were holding their breath while predators crept around their roots. John and a few other Dragons were living with a forest nymph tribe, striving to meditate peacefully and learn the nymph’s caution. They were awfully skittish creatures, the nymphs; even the sun seemed to be hesitant to rise this morning, worried to reveal the inevitabilities of the day, and that was enough to set the nymphs on guard._

_They’d had proper reason to fear, though. The other Dragons in that Clan, more ripe with experiences and maturity, had intelligently hidden with the nymphs, but John’s belligerent bravery (stupidity) led him barreling through the forest. His hero’s complex demanded that he not only discovered the source of the forest’s tension, but vanquished it, accumulating all related honor and gratitude._

_He stumbled blindly over the thick bed of dead leaves, snapping twigs and muttering curses._

_The hulking mass crashed on him too suddenly for any reaction. Living with the nymphs, he had shifted into a replica of their lithe, abnormally tall bodies with extended fingers and browned, bark-like skin; this appearance established him as a perfect target for any predator, and target he had become._

_He struggled against the claws and teeth, ignoring the ripping, agonizing pain from his left hip and ankle. John's unfamiliar, unexpected strength caught the creature off-guard, creating a fairly equal fight, given the circumstances. Snarls and scuffles ended up with John pressed against the ground, leaves tangled in his hair and a murderous glare at being bested._

_The eyes on top of him staring back were startling blue, strangely intelligent, clashing against the blond fur around its face. It stared directly at John with inexplicable ferocity, before suffering a stroke of realization (this creature was clearly _not_ a forest nymph). From that glance, however, John was irreversibly and unapologetically enamored._

Inhale. Reach. Pull back; breathe.

Inhale. Reach. Pull back; breathe.

Ordinarily, John fancied himself a patient person. He’d waited five months alone in the desert for his traveling companion to return from a private ritual meditation, once, not to mention the time he persisted with a Clan for twelve years while never being permitted to speak or make eye contact. John was a patient person, but Molly and Mike’s conversation had been nothing short of _tedious_ , and John had resorted towards meditative breathing to keep his stoic composure.

It was clear they were historic friends, sharing some sort of similar suffering. Molly had introduced John, but then immediately expanded on a tangent about a situation at work—some sulking, intolerable co-worker or “Master” (John loathed the term)—which had sustained for an impossibly long conversation, all centered on a _single_ person. John tuned out after the first or second remark on his cheekbones.

He’d known a fellow like that once, a purposeful enigma. It was understandable, though, seeing how that Dragon was the patron of mystery. He’d stayed in a Clan with him for about twelve hundred years, but the Dragon rarely spoke. Dragons regularly shifted, rotated, broke apart, and created new Clans over the years; John had probably been in thirty established Dragon Clans in his existence, plus his time of individual exploration or travels with other species.

Dragons regularly garnered reverence from other species. At the least, they were undoubtedly given respect, unless proven to be inept or cruel. Dragons were one of the species within the Magical Higher Aristocracy—an elite within Magical society, creatures who had been born with the planet. Though the exact member species of the Magical Higher Aristocracy weren’t explicitly known, any Magical creature could instantaneously recognize a member’s power when they were in their true form (for John, as well as the rest of his brethren, this form was a hulking, lithe Dragon). This honor allowed him regular travels with a variety of other species, from forest nymphs and mermaids to hippogriffs and feisty magma-creatures with a horrible tendency for spitting molten rocks called _Paloozoid_. Those were horrible beasts, John remembered distantly, constantly fighting with one another over territory lines and barely tolerating John’s presence, despite his rank.

“He’s a right git, and nobody can convince me otherwise. Sorry, Molly, who’s this, now?”

The change in topic drew John back closer to reality.

“Oh! I’m—I’m so sorry,” Molly blushed, glancing at John’s feet. “I can’t believe I—”

“It’s fine,” John interrupted, severing her stumbling nervousness with a soft smile.

“This is John,” Molly repeated, “John, this is Mike. John’s going to save us”

Mike snorted. “Right, just like every other errant werewolf or vixen who comes in here pledging to dismantle the government and revolt in the name of the Magics, you’re going to be our new Jesus, yeah? Let me tell you, then—you’re gonna save us, yeah? What’s your—”

“Mike!” Molly shrieked. “Mike, John’s a Dragon. The stars sent me to bring him to London. The stars sent him, I swear. He’s a real savior.”

Mike fell silent, face flushed. “Right. Yeah. Dragon, yeah? Dragon.”

John paused, before succinctly nodding.

“Why are you here? Who are you?”

“I’m John. I’m the patron Dragon of balance. I’m going to try to offset the chaos,” John explained. “There seems to be an entity in London causing inherent unrest and chaos. Us members of the Magical Higher Aristocracy, our very presence can subliminally suggest an action or thought or impulse or feeling. My presence should nullify this being of chaos’s effects, just as the effects of _my_ presence will be canceled out by this creature. Without either influence, the path will be completely up to the populous to revolt or submit. Perhaps it won’t be an easy choice to make, but it will be completely under your control, not influenced by any outside sources.”

A bit green in the face, Mike nodded. “You need to start over here, then, I guess? Need a new life?”

John nodded. “I’ve spent many years perfecting my transformation and shapeshifting skills, and I’m confident that I can portray a human without question. I know Molly said that you more specialize in creating new lives for liberated Others, but I’d greatly appreciate if you could acquire a Human identification badge.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can—we can make you seem human,” Mike said. “I’m not sure how much Molly’s told you, but I’m a projecting psychic. When I remove my Constraint, I can implant thoughts or memories into other people’s heads. I upload false pasts into my clients’ minds to form impeccable explanations and backstories for those moving here. They don’t override your true memories or anything, they just exist concurrently, an automatic reservoir you can access if you need to explain anything.”

“Sounds great. When can we begin?”

Molly departed quickly after, explaining that her Masters would begin to question or punish her if she stayed out much longer. For the first time, John took in stock of his surroundings. Mike was quartered in a grungy building, but seemed to own the whole of the two-story loft, a small miracle in London for an Other. It was run-down, with torn and mismatched couches and a television displaying static, but it carried a sense of indeterminable hope and homeliness. The walls were peeling off their eggshell white coats, exposing underlying graffiti in an erratic pattern.

John was a war veteran, apparently.

Mike expertly crafted John a story of tragedy and despair: he had been a Wartime Magical Creatures Handler in Afghanistan, valiantly leading a fierce Vasagle across the desert when a surprise attack of murderous pixies triggered the Vasagle into chaotic rage. In its rampage, it clipped John in the shoulder with its horn. Though injured to the point of being sent back to London, his shoulder was miraculously saved from irreparable harm. Regular meetings with a therapist assigned him a psychosomatic limp and a cane. He had just moved back to London and was looking for a flatmate.

Mike gave him an extensive schedule book and resource checklist, assigning him a fake therapist, therapy appointment times, a resume, a small stack of new clothes, and a white identification badge. As far as any human could tell, he was just as human as them. The Others could recognize him as a Magic, but knew better than to mention anything.

That’s how John found himself walking through the busy streets of London. At Mike’s request, they’d taken a cab to an expansive park in the heart of London—John really should be learning London's street names and landmarks in order to pull this off—and had sat him down at a bench, pretending to stumble into him coincidentally. John brushed it off as some sort of strange method acting and--what was the term?-- rolled with it.

Mike ultimately took John to the London Menagerie.

As they walked up the marble steps, an involuntary shiver coursed through John’s spine. Every Magical creature was connected through a web of telepathy; certain creatures, like John or Mike, were more in touch with this web, whereas some creatures were moderately connected (such as Molly). The majority were, for all intents and purposes, oblivious of this connection. The emotions and agonies of every Magical, however, clearly coursed through the web; as he stepped up towards the door of the Menagerie, the cries and sorrow of the Magicals became unbearable. He forcibly suppressed their cries from his mind, disconnecting himself from the web instantly.

The inside lobby of the Menagerie was decidedly less luxurious than the outside, but was certainly as grandiose. The center of the room featured a massive statue of a Vasagle, actual size, spanning at least four stories high in the atrium. Vines and plants itched up its legs and a circular row of benches surrounded the centerpiece. The rest of the room was a circle around the statue, with a grand entrance to the Menagerie directly across the room.

The room was bustling with tourists, employees, and important seeming people in lab coats. Each quarter of the room had its own desk and secretary, as well as a simple steel door. The general population was corralled by a long, roped-off line leading up to the desk closest to the Menagerie entrance, extending out the door and onto the sidewalk. 

Mike let John glance through the room. “Horrible, isn’t it?” 

“Why the Vasagle?” John forced himself to ask after a moment, tugging absentmindedly at his jumper while he stared up at the monstrous marble statue. It must have costed a _fortune_ to create a statue of such magnitude from such beautiful looking stone. 

“A tribute to the Vasagles who won them the war,” Mike shrugged. “I think it’s just an excuse for the government to show off.”

Mike led John towards the closest counter on the left as John watched his surroundings. Almost everyone in the room boasted a white identification tag, save for a few demure employees who kept their heads down and shoulders hunched.

A woman in a lab coat and a white tag walked confidently across the atrium floor, radiating authority. She walked directly towards one of the black-tagged workers, calling his attention harshly. With a jolt, the Other looked up, eyes sullen and frightened. The woman barked out orders and obvious insults. The Other muttered something softly in return, too quietly for John to pick up, and the woman slapped him across the face.

“John, c’mon,” Mike hollered. John quickly broke his glance from the scene, face flushed and fingers trembling.

John blindly followed Mike through a steel door and down a sterile, white hallway. Hanging signs gestured toward specific laboratories and meeting rooms. With obvious familiarity, Mike led John through the maze, down several flights of stairs, and towards a room with the title plate _HOLMES, S_.

“Right, now,” Mike muttered, before swinging the door open.

It was a bright white laboratory, with a shelf of vibrantly colored liquids and tools. Across the back wall spanned a kennel, but John could clearly tell that nothing _alive_ was being housed there. The table was chaotically strewn with tubes, pipes, microscopes, petri plates, hot plates, lamps—any laboratory tool imaginable. What caught John’s eye, though, was the man.

He was tall, that was the first thing John noticed. He had to lean down in order to peer into the microscope without causing a harsh hump in his shoulders. Secondly, he had the palest skin John had ever seen on a human, but his startling black hair emphasized his fairness. Thirdly, he seemed to be dressed much too formally to be working in a laboratory with dangerous chemicals and permanent dyes.

Sherlock glanced up momentarily and made his own deductions, but none were nearly so trivial as John’s.

“Bit different than my day,” John commented absentmindedly as he limped in, automatically drawing on the memories that Mike had implanted (he had worked at the Menagerie in his pre-war training, apparently; he hadn’t even realized until this moment spurred the remembrance). 

“You’ve no idea,” Mike muttered with a light laugh, watching Sherlock with a knowing smirk.

John was just about to bring up the sulfurous odor of a dying creature when the stranger muttered, “Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine.” The statement seemed more like a demand than a favor.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

“Here. Er, use mine,” John offered, pulling the phone Mike had given him from his back pocket and tossing it over to the man (he’d asked John for a name of someone who’d be his imagined sibling, and he’d automatically given Harriet’s name for the inscription on the back. John was feeling suddenly self-conscious about that now).

“Oh. Thank you.”

Sherlock flipped it between his fingers, absorbing details before sliding it open and sending off a blindingly quick text.

“Ah. He’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike introduced.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John glanced up from the grout on the floor with a snap. Sherlock still stared down at the phone, sending another text. Mike gave John a smug glance of understanding.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?”

“Inadequate, Mike,” Sherlock snapped, returning to his pipette.

“Inadequate?” Mike stuttered.

“Yes, thank you for the repetition of my deduction,” Sherlock muttered. "He won't do for a flatmate."

“You don’t even know me,” John interrupted. Sherlock was part of the plan, he _had_ to stay with Sherlock. That’s what Mike said, at least, and John was beginning to take Mike’s word as gospel when it came to this transition.

With a slight groan, Sherlock looked up from his experiment. “I know you’re an army Magical Creatures handler and you’ve been invalidated home from Afghanistan. Vasagle injury, was it? I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him—possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic—quite correctly, I’m afraid. An army man does not fit my requirements for a flatmate, they’re too dull and too—”

Sherlock froze mid-sentence, glancing towards Mike and back at John. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._ He’d written off this army man as uninteresting, and he suddenly couldn’t have been more wrong. The way John held himself, leaning slightly towards Mike, subconsciously, suggested dependence, trust; an old colleague wouldn’t elicit such dependence, and doubly wouldn’t explain the Other hair on John’s back. John had obviously been sleeping on couches where Others slept, uncomfortably and unsuccessfully at that, and with such a wide variety of hair types, he must have been staying at Mike’s. The dependence as well as the hair suggested only one possible deduction: John had used Mike’s services to start a new life in London.

Why would John, a human with such a dreary past and obvious mode of societal reentry, need Mike’s services? What would a human have to run from? Why would Mike risk his health and safety to help a human like John? John suddenly shifted from below his interest towards the most perplexing man he’d met.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

It took John a moment to register the sudden shift in conversation and that the question was directed to him. “Er, sorry?”

“The violin. I play it when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Oh, you—you…? Flatmates? I thought I was inadequate. I—I don’t even know you.”

Sherlock smirked, clearly enjoying such a game of cat and mouse, abandoning his position behind the laboratory table and striding confidently out of the lab. He paused before fully exiting, meeting eyes with John defiantly. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He gave John a quick wink. “Oh, and Mike? Get me an _aciracasi_ , if you would, by Friday.”

With that, he walked out the door.

“Yeah. He’s always like that,” Mike smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I fixed the issue with the story being listed as complete; it should show that it's still a work in progress now. Again, any comments, questions, are concerns are greatly welcomed and appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

For how old he may be, John still felt, at times, impossibly immature and idiotic. He didn’t think he’d ever be _wise_ , not really. It wasn’t in his nature.

Wisdom was definitely not in his nature. His decision to actually _go_ to the address that Mr. Holmes had suggested proved that enough. But the thrill of adrenaline that seared through his fingers when the man walked out of a cab in his dramatic coat, with the collar flared up to shield his neck, proved that _impulsive idiocy_ very well might be in his nature instead.

For a second, he thought that this whole meeting might very well be a joke. The flat was in a wonderful location, enough to make John a bit suspicious about how much his cut of the rent would be (he didn’t _actually_ have an army pension, after all, and would have to make do with borrowed money until he could get an easy job somewhere), poised right next to a quaint little cafe. It was a twenty minute walk through the Regent’s Park to the London Menagerie, or a four minute cab ride in a hurry. John had a sinking instinct in his gut that he’d be spending a significant amount of time at that god-forsaken prison of a zoo, and he’d learned to trust his gut many centuries ago.

The location or the price wasn’t what made the whole situation seem like the universe’s cruel joke against him, but the undoubted air of dramatics that seemed to emanate from the flat. On retrospect, however, that dramatic flair could very well be Mr. Holmes himself.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Holmes,” John greeted, turning back towards the man. Out of the laboratory’s sterile white light, his skin took on a bit more color, but nothing near the tan of John’s. His height was still obvious, holding him a few inches above John. He seemed to use that to his advantage, giving him the same ever-so-slight condescension that John had thought he’d picked up yesterday.

“Sherlock, please,” Mr. Holmes muttered, giving John an amiable handshake. He had a firm grip, respectable, but not intimidating, and John returned a similar gasp.

“Nice spot,” John mused, glancing back towards the brass numbers on the door. “Must be expensive.” He turned, glancing around the bustling street, watching black-tagged and white-tagged people muse by, blending into each other seamlessly. With how quickly they walked and the number of people, the minute details that would allow someone to pick apart the idiosyncrasies between Other and Human faded away, making them all virtually indiscernible, past their identification badges.

Which, John then noticed, was absent from Sherlock’s neck. He wasn't sure if that made him uncomfortable or not.

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s given me a special deal. Owes me a favor. Few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. Some sort of high illegal Magics black market charge. I was able to… help out.” His gaze glided past John, seeming to search out for a detail just above his shoulder. 

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”

Sherlock’s eyes, bordering on bored, slid back onto John. “Oh, no. I ensured it.” He gave a misplaced smile, before the door swung open.

The woman who opened the door called out his name, engulfing him in a sweet, motherly hug. Sherlock’s demeanor seemed to change around this woman, gaining a soft affection. She was an older lady, with a certain softness in every action.

Sherlock introduced John, and John muttered his greetings, making his way up towards the potential flat. ‘Potential,’ maybe, wasn’t the right word—it seemed that Sherlock was already moved in, judging by his comfort with the haphazard decorations and chaotically organized mess of boxes and _stuff_.

“There’s a room upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” Mrs. Hudson chirped, fluttering into the room. This time, she came in with a small Magic perched luxuriously on her shoulder.

“Of course we’ll be—needing two…” John let his thought trail off a bit, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry, who’s this, now?”

“Oh! This is Pipsy,” Mrs. Hudson beamed. The small creature seemed to perk up at his name. “He’s a _cordath_. Not a dreadfully fancy or rare creature, not like those ones that Sherlock brings in, but he’s wonderful nonetheless. Had him for 12 years, I have! Got him during a vacation to Exeter.”

The Magic small made a small, soft trill, rubbing against Mrs. Hudson’s chin. It was a small creature, with a similar body shape to a chinchilla. Its ears were smaller and more pointed than a chinchilla, however, and its eyes were more front-facing; its entire body was a fuzzy, snowy white, save for black paws. The main distinguishing factor between the cordath and chinchillas were the small, bat-like wings that sprouted from between its shoulder blades and the firm intelligence it held in its dark eyes. John loathed the species—they were a nuisance in the forest, swooping down and stealing fruits or attacking perceived threats—but he could appreciate Pipsy, if only for his obvious docility and his attachment to Mrs. Hudson.

“And absolutely no experimenting on Pipsy, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson scolded, as if knowing the thought had already crossed his mind. “Even if you don’t think it’ll hurt him. He’s an old chap, he doesn’t need you fussing about him.”

“Never an old chap, not Pip!” Sherlock grinned, petting the underside of his chin. Pipsy trilled his satisfaction, crawling up onto Sherlock’s shoulder at an incredible speed and rubbed against Sherlock’s neck. “He’s still got a good five years before he even starts slowing down.”

A slow, radiating wave of relaxation flowed through John, unnoticed. It was a sense of satisfaction at the respect Sherlock seemed to show Pipsy, and though John knew it wasn’t anything to be going off of, a small part of his mind reasoned that clear respect for a Magic like Pipsy was indicative of respect for the Others. At least he didn’t have to worry about his flatmate keeping slaves. Hopefully. 

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made,” Mrs. Hudson chided, turning towards the kitchen. Pipsy trilled again, pushing off of Sherlock’s shoulder and gliding onto Mrs. Hudson’s. John settled into a chair, eyes skimming the flat. “What about these deaths, then, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson continued, walking back into the living room. “Thought it’d be right up your street. Three, exactly the same—”

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the street outside of the window. “Four. There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

Another man padded up the stairs, walking into the flat with an animalistic glint to his eyes. He had a sense of inherent control, despite the hesitant glimmer of barbarism. John had spent most of his time apart from other Dragons with differing packs of werewolves, and John didn’t need to see the man’s black identification label to confirm that that this man was a werewolf—incredibly composed and trained, but a werewolf, nonetheless.

“Where?” Sherlock quickly demanded.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t come get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know it never leaves a trace? This time, it did. Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

The man nodded, turning in slight exasperation and walking back down the stairs.

With a sudden jolt of excitement, Sherlock rocketed forward. “ _Brilliant!_ Yes! Four serial suicides, a now a note! It’s Christmas!” He rushed to pull on his coat and scarf, calling his goodbyes as he jumped out the door.

“Look at him, dashing about,” Mrs. Hudson scorned. Pipsy seemed to trill in agreement, taking time to inspect John’s unfamiliar scents. “But you’re more the sitting down type, I can tell. I’ll make you a cuppa. Just this once, though, dear, I’m not your housekeeper.”

“A couple of biscuits, if you’ve got them,” John muttered, unfolding the newspaper that was perched on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. It was this morning’s edition, with a bright headline about the serial suicide rampage of Others in London. His eyes drifted down to see an image of the werewolf who had just walked into the flat, with an identification as ‘Chief Tracker Lestrade’ underneath it. He had that sort of cool, police-like indifference about him. The Tracker division of the police force had been constructed some thirty years ago—even though it dealt exclusively in feral Magics or runaway Others, it must have taken him quite some time and skill to rise into being Chief Tracker, being an Other himself.

“You do magical creatures care.”

John’s eyes snapped up towards Sherlock, who lazed near the entrance of the door.

“In fact, you’re an Army caretaker.”

John’s mind quickly raced back towards the past that Mike had given him, and he cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Any good?”

John stomached an instinctual laugh. He’d spent his entire life studying the creatures around him, spending centuries on single species if necessary. He doubted there were many better, really. “Very good.”

“Seen lot of Others injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

“Well, yes,” John muttered, flicking back towards his fake wartime memories. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see some more?”

He’d spent years hunting among the amazon, he’d plunged head first from cliffs when the cultures he’d been visiting dictated it—somehow, those five simple words seemed to inject him with more adrenaline and thrumming energy than he could remember ever having.

“Oh, God, yes.”

\--

John never had gotten used to the reek of death. 

It wasn’t something experience could ever sensitize him to, and he found his nose wrinkling up as they made their way up towards the body.

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade called, leading the way up. “Her name’s Jennifer Wilson. She’s a forest nymph, owned by a Mr.Clarence Smith, a stock broker. We’ve got people talking to him now. Seems like she was in town on an errand, alone.”

“Must have been very trusted to go along on a trip like that alone,” John muttered, awkwardly out of place. 

Lestrade’s eyes slighted towards him, as if just noticing his presence as they walked into the room. “Not all Others are disloyal.”

John flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

A few stale moments passed, time feeling lethargic to move on from the room, thick with rotting flesh and death. There were faint patches of ivy curled in with her blonde hair, but the startling pink outfit caught most of John’s attention. She was big boned for a forest nymph, but the signs of her species were still obvious, between the ivy in her hair and the faint green of her lips that her make-up hadn’t managed to disguise. Next to her hand, scratched into the wood, were the letters R-A-C-H-E.

“Shut up.”

For a moment, John was sure that Sherlock had snapped at him, but he held his hand out directly toward Lestrade.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lestrade grumbled.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

He knelt down by the woman’s side, inspecting various parts of the corpse. A wave of nausea rolled through John’s stomach as Sherlock lifted the lifeless fingers and plucked of a ring, before slipping it back and rising again.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked, looking back down at the sorry corpse.

“Not much.” Sherlock plucked off his gloves, scrolling through his mobile phone. “Dr. Watson, what do you think?”

A rapid flash of excited nausea seared through John violently, leaving his heart thumping and fingers tingling. “Of the R-A-C-H-E?”

“Of the body. She’s a nymph, you’re a Caretaker. What do you think?” He drawled, popping the 'k' with an uninterested click.

Lestrade made a slight noise of protest, but shook his head. “Fine. Yeah, go ahead, Dr. Watson.” With an indiscernible mutter, he turned and walked out the door, ordering to keep everyone out for a few minutes.

John glanced down at the body, glancing at the corpse. “She’s a Northern Druid, from…” John glanced over the woman’s face, feeling the gills on her collar bones as Sherlock stood and pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket. “Somewhere around Cambridge? Wasn’t drunk. Seemed to die from asphyxiation. Maybe it was a killing...”

“You know what it is.”

John swallowed hard, glancing up to catch Sherlock’s eyes trailed on him. “You mean, one of those suicides? But it’s...clean, as if she took a pill and just…died. The Others can't commit suicide, the bindings restrict--”

“I said two minutes, Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, the door swinging open and thumping against the wall. “I’ll need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock streamed into a long row of rapid-fire facts and statements that left John's head spinning.

"That was... amazing." John wasn't quite sure if he was affirming this to Sherlock, or if it he was questioning Sherlock's humanity. He'd never seen a human able to deduce facts like that; that sort of intellect and knowledge was the work of psychics, not men.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied after a momentary pause, several micro expressions flying through his face. He shook his head and snapped out of his momentary confusion. “Get me the suitcase.”

“Suitcase?”

“Yes, the suitcase!”

“Sherlock, there was no case!”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “They’re murders. All of them. I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides—planned, murders!”

“What, Sherlock—”

“Oh, come _on_ , where is the _case?_ Where is the case, did she _eat_ it? There’s clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss it!”

“Could have gone to a hotel,” John peeped in. “Left her case there.”

“No, no, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking … _oh!_ ”

“What is it?”

Sherlock spun out of the room, rushing down the stairs as he hollered, “serial killers are always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!” Lestrade bayed.

“Don’t you see? We’re done waiting! He’s messed up already! Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson’s friends and family are. Find Rachel!”

“Yeah, sure, but—what mistake?”

“ _PINK!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions greatly appreciated! =)


End file.
